


Like An Arrow To the Liver

by an_evasive_author



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 21:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18558007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_evasive_author/pseuds/an_evasive_author
Summary: Beleg likes spending time with Túrin. He also likes to not be shot full of arrows. Sometimes you cannot have everything you want.





	Like An Arrow To the Liver

Beleg did not like blaming people, even if they where at fault. Most of this notion stemmed from the fact that he did not often deal with other elves safe the march wardens. His closest companions where trees and though they had their own form of life, of rudimentary...well, he hesitated to call it speech he could undertsand, more like a _feel_ and emotion, they seldom blamed. Neither did animals, even when he hunted them.

 

As such, it felt only fair to not blame Túrin even though he felt somehow it would have been appropriate. If animals and plants could forego resentment for getting stuck with arrows, so could he. The brightly coloured fletching on the end of the arrow moved with Beleg's breathing. Like a flower in the wind. Oddly pretty, though much more painful.

 

Túrin was certainly of different opinion, though that was fine. Different ways of thinking where often refreshing when one took the time to listen. Still lying on the ground, Beleg found Túrin hunched over him, “Beleg, oh, Beleg forgive me!” Túrin cried and pulled at Beleg's clothes in maddened fear. The bow he had been using so skilfully had been tossed aside, arrows had spilled from their quiver. "I didn't see you, I thought you a deer. I'm sorry!"

 

“Forgiven,” Beleg smiled and thought the matter closed _._ Túrin did not and continued his endless apologies while Beleg sat up.

 

“Beleg, is this to be my curse? To kill my friend like common game?”

 

“Oh, these things happen. I am still alive and kicking, too. Though it was well shot, you should be proud of yourself, I certainly am,” Beleg said and carefully sat up. Túrin watched him, breathing ragged and brow glistening. Beleg, in comparison, laughed as he staggered upright.

 

He supposed the first thing would be to go back to the encampment. Túrin grabbed his arm and held steadied him, though Beleg hardly minded that. It was like a companionable walk. Just Túrin, Beleg and the two feet of arrow sticking out of Beleg. How quaint.

 

“Dear boy, don't say that, “ Beleg said mildly and clapped Túrin on the back. The motion made himself wince, though he hid it well when Túrin turned his head again. “See the bright sight of it.”  
  
“The bright side of what?” Túrin asked sullenly. How Beleg disliked seeing him like this.  
  
“Well,” Beleg laughed and regretted it right away as the iron-tipped arrow shifted around. “Do you not always complain that we never take walks together?”  
  
“I would not have thought I needed to shoot you in order for it to happen.” Túrin groused, though there was the unmistakeable choke in his voice that threatened tears. Beleg pretended not to notice to spare the boy any more embarrassment, sang a merry tune while the arrow bobbed along with every step until the reached camp.

 

* * *

 

Mablung was very skilled at multitasking, Beleg thought from where he had been pushed unto the ground. His tunic had been cut away, his nose stung from the smell of numbing herbs.

 

Mablung could prepare the things needed to treat Beleg and at the same time come up with the most creative curses. Perhaps because he read a lot, something Beleg had never gotten into. It also did not help that Mablung favoured books on war strategies and other topics that where as dry as sand.

“Sometimes,” Mablung said when Túrin had been chased away to fetch water from the stream, “I do think I am actually reborn, escaped from the void and punished for it with being saddled with the two of you. Why else, I ask you, would I continually being chastened when all I do is patrolling? Riddle me this, Beleg, old friend?”  
  
Beleg, head resting on his bedroll, smiled brightly and laughed, “Oh, but I am not very gifted with riddles you know tha- _AIIEE_!”

And with that Mablung ripped the arrow clean out. Beleg saw the world turn and then grow dark.

 

* * *

 

 

When he awoke, it was night. He had been bandaged up, his felt bandages and smelt food. Turning his face, he yawned, stretched and called out to the others.

 

“What's for supper?” Beleg asked and received a slap to the back of his head. Mablung was already there, heaping new curses upon him as a bowl of stew found its way into Beleg's hands. There was also a piece of bread, golden and toasted, with butter dripping over his fingers. He licked it away and sank his teeth into the golden crust. His gaze wandered around the camp.

Túrin sat near the fire, hunched sullenly over his own meal. He turned his head from time to time to see for Beleg and when Beleg waved, the boy's head snapped back around and he slumped even lower, this time out of relief. Beleg grinned and turned back to see Mablung still furious.

“Fainted for most of the evening and the first thing, the _first_ thing he asks is if food is ready. How well you weaselled your way out of potato peeling, dear Beleg. But don't worry, I had the boy peel every single one I could find.” Mablung snarled.  
  
Beleg, unimpressed and with a mouthful of stew hastily swallowed, asked “Does he blame himself?”  
  
Mablung nodded, “Of course he does, as well as he should.” At Beleg's disapproving frown, he snorted, “It was sloppy work. What if you had been killed?”

“Oh, but you where not there, dear friend,” Beleg said after inhaling half his stew and most of his bread. “Also you where not the one shot. So,” Beleg said, just as calm, just as placid as he always did. And yet Mablung shrunk back when Beleg looked at him, “I do not see why you should determine what blame he is supposed to feel and which he does not.”

Mablung folded his ears back and finally found it very difficult to maintain eye contact, then he sighed, “I see. It was perhaps an overreaction...”

“No harm done,” smiled Beleg, now once again eating. “Though perhaps a little reminder won't hurt.” Mablung took the empty bowl with him once it was empty and Beleg trundled his merry way over to the others, plopping down next to Túrin who looked properly ashamed of himself.

 

How Beleg disliked seeing him like this. “Beleg, I-” Túrin started and Beleg cut him off sharply.

 

“Shush, none of that,” Beleg said and laughed. “Instead let us play a round of cards.”

 

For a while, there was only the sound of a elven camp all around them. Subdued chatter, blades honed on whetting stones and someone plucking a lyre. Other wardens soon joined, Mablung, too, for could not resist a round of games.

 

Túrin, surrounded with the victories of his cards, they had played with hazelnuts as ante, as Túrin was the undisputed master of card games.

 

No one could quite read him, the way his ears remained rigid and expressionless. Only Beleg had ever truly bothered to learn his companions gestures, but Beleg was terrible at cards. “I—You are truly not mad?” Túrin asked when he had won once more

 

“Of course not,” said Beleg and lost the third time in a row. “Though I do think you should keep practising.”

 

“Why?” asked Túrin, he had largely recovered his wits and snark and finally Beleg found the boy he adored so again. “I already shot you.”

  
“Well,” said Beleg and clapped Túrin on the back, “You did not even hit anything vital.”

 

“ _Beleg_!” Mablung admonished sharply and rearranged his cards. “Honestly!

 


End file.
